Last Chance Book Club

by Hope Ramsay

  Shoot, his life was exactly like those stupid drinking and cheating songs on Dottie’s jukebox. It was pitiful.

  He straightened his shoulders and turned toward the jukebox, where Willie Nelson was singing “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” “It’s a damn good thing I don’t have a shotgun because I might be tempted to murder that thing. Don’t you have any happy songs in there?”

  Dottie laughed. “No, honey, I don’t.”

  “Don’t you believe in happiness?”

  “Sure I do, but on the nights when the Wild Horses don’t play I get patrons who just want to drink and listen to sad music. Ain’t that right, Roy?” She turned toward Roy Burdett, who was, as usual, drunker than a skunk.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I come here most Mondays and I’m tired of it.” Dash pushed himself up from the bar stool and headed over to the jukebox. He didn’t have a shotgun, but he was fully capable of disabling that infernal machine. He searched out the wall socket and pulled the power cord from the wall. Dot’s Spot went quiet.

  Half a dozen good ol’ boys looked up from their beers and bourbons.

  “Hey, why’d you do that?” Roy staggered to his feet and came toward Dash. “I like that song. You plug it back in.”

  “No, Roy, I won’t. And besides, you’re wasted. You should get on home to Laura-Beth. Have you ever thought what she must think of you coming down here every night and drinking yourself numb? Maybe you should think about joining AA. I’ve got the number of the folks at the Allenberg County chapter and—”

  “Now, Dash,” Dottie said, “don’t you be trying to sign folks up for AA. That’s bad for business. Why don’t you just go on home to Miriam? You should be with her tonight, anyway. The fact is, you don’t belong here anymore. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Don’t belong?” Dash’s pulse kicked up. Folks were always telling him he didn’t belong.

  Dottie continued in her sweet voice. “Dash, honey, you’re a recovering alcoholic. A bar is a strange place for a person like you. I think you’ve proved to everyone’s satisfaction that you’re tough enough to sit here surrounded by booze and not give in to temptation. So maybe you should start thinking about moving on. I’m sure Hettie would approve if you moved on.”

  “Yeah,” Roy said, staggering forward. “And I really don’t like your taste in music.”

  “Well, that’s okay, Roy, because I don’t like yours either. In my opinion, Willie Nelson sucks.”

  “He does not.” And Roy Burdett, who had once been a member of the Davis High Rebel defensive line, rushed Dash like he was an opposing quarterback.

  Dash might have been sober, but he was hampered by a bum knee—the injury that had ended his baseball career. And Roy was still surprisingly fast, even for a drunk.

  Dash didn’t see stars when Roy tackled him. In fact, Dash didn’t even remember hitting the floor.

  Savannah rested her head on the back of the rocking chair and cuddled a little deeper into her old cashmere sweater. It was almost too cold to be out here on the porch, but she held her ground hoping her summer memories might warm her up. Darn it, South Carolina had always been hot and humid when she came to visit. And that’s the way she wanted it now. Like her most treasured memories.

  Still, she wasn’t about to let the late hour or the cold drive her inside. She wanted to sit here and remember Granddaddy.

  But instead of finding the happy memories of her childhood, she ended up obsessing over the enormous thing she had done today. She had actually gotten off her fanny and taken Todd across several state lines. If she decided to stay here, there wasn’t much Claire could do about it.

  Of course, if Greg decided he was unhappy about the situation, he could cause trouble. Savannah was surprisingly ambivalent about that. In some corner of her heart, she almost hoped that Greg cared enough to cause trouble. But in her head, she knew that wasn’t ever going to happen. Greg was a lot like her own father, who had walked out on her and Mom when Savannah was three.

  So Savannah had faced the unhappy truth. And surprisingly, facing it only lent more urgency to her escape plans. Coming here to Last Chance might be her last chance to really take charge of her life.

  She could also follow her dream of finally doing something about The Kismet, the movie theater Granddaddy had left to her. She wanted to renovate The Kismet and bring it back to life.

  Accomplishing that dream would take a miracle, of course. Nothing had changed since the big chain theaters had driven Granddaddy out of business. A person like Savannah, with no financing and no business experience, had zero chance of succeeding where Granddaddy had failed.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to silence the negative voice inside her head. She wasn’t much for praying, but she winged a little prayer skyward anyway. Help me find the courage.

  Just then the sound of crunching gravel alerted her to the arrival of someone in the driveway. She opened her eyes to the glare of headlights. A moment later two backlit silhouettes emerged from the brightness.

  “Ma’am,” a voice called out. “Is that you, Miz Miriam?”

  “No, it’s Savannah White. I’m Miriam’s niece.”

  “That’s the princess I been tellin’ you ’bout, Damian.” Savannah recognized that deep drawl.

  An athletic-looking African-American dressed in the buff uniform of the Last Chance Police Department stepped up onto the front porch, followed by Dash, who was pressing an ice pack to his lip. The front of Dash’s shirt was covered in blood.

  The officer brushed his fingers along the side of his Stetson. “Ma’am, I’m Chief Damian Easley. Miz Dottie gave me a call about an hour and a half ago. I’m afraid Dash ran into a little bit of trouble with Roy Burdett down at The Spot.”

  Savannah stared at her unruly cousin. “You got into a bar fight on the night before Uncle Harry’s funeral?”

  Dash said not a word. Possibly because his lip was injured, but probably because he had nothing to say in his own defense.

  Chief Easley grinned like he thought it was a joke or something. “Well, that’s not all that unusual when you consider Roy Burdett. I took Dash over to the clinic, and Doc Cooper put a couple of stitches in his lip. The good news is that, even though Roy knocked the crap out of him, Dash doesn’t appear to have a concussion. Otherwise Doc would have probably kept him under observation all night.”

  “I need to get my car.” Dash’s voice sounded muffled and slurred.

  “I’ll see about having someone drive it over in the morning. You probably shouldn’t drive.”

  Well, of course not. Dash was obviously three sheets to the wind. Savannah watched as her cousin made his way up the porch steps. He leaned a little unsteadily against the porch railing and turned back toward the policeman. “Thanks, Damian.”

  Officer Easley tipped his hat a second time. “Good night, y’all. I’m sorry about your loss.” A moment later the cruiser’s headlights swung in a wide arc, and the night returned to darkness.

  Dash turned toward Savannah. “Don’t look at me like that. Roy tackled me because of Dottie’s jukebox. Everyone’s a music critic these days.”

  His words were hard to understand through the swelling and the ice pack.

  “Do you need help getting to bed?” she asked.

  “Are you volunteering to tuck me in?”

  Was that a put-down? Or was it a come-on? Ew.

  And just like that, a little unwanted vibration of awareness shot through her, underscoring the nonexistent status of her current social life. Dash had grown into an amazingly handsome man—all craggy-faced in a Harrison Ford kind of way. Even with a bloody shirt and a swollen lip, he looked like some larger-than-life movie cowboy. But still. This was Dash she was looking at. Her cousin.

  Okay, so he wasn’t really her cousin exactly, but they were still related.

  And he was a total screwup. And a drunk. And he was trying to mess with her mind like he always did.

  She gave him her Uma-Thurman-
as-Beatrix-Kiddo squint that still put the fear of God into Todd. “Honestly, I should ground you or something. You’re acting like an out-of-control teenager.”

  He didn’t seem all that affected by the squint. He pushed off the porch railing and walked slowly toward the front door. He moved carefully like a drunk who didn’t want to stumble.

  “Here, let me help you with the—”

  “I don’t need your help.” His words sounded angry as he managed to open the door. He headed across the foyer toward the stairway in a kind of stiff-legged walk. He was obviously limping. Savannah followed in his wake like a mother chasing after an unsteady one-year-old. Boy, he had really put on a bender tonight, hadn’t he?

  Maybe he was so sad about Uncle Harry’s passing he’d tried to numb his grief with booze.

  Or maybe he put on a bender most nights.

  He took the first step and let out a groan. He stopped, bending over to massage his knee. He was listing to one side. In a minute, he was going to fall ass-over-teacart. Savannah snagged his shoulders and steadied him on his feet. “Whoa there, pardner,” she said in a phony drawl, as the feel of bone, sinew, and soft cotton beneath her fingers triggered an unexpected and entirely unacceptable internal response.

  She resisted the instinct to draw back as if she’d been scalded. If she did that, Dash would fall.

  “Thank you, princess,” he said under his breath. He steadied himself and took the first couple of steps up to the landing. “You know, I’m not nearly as drunk as you think I am.”

  “Oh, really?” she said, letting go of his shoulders. Releasing him didn’t seem to help her spiky heart rhythm one bit, especially since her field of vision filled with a view of his Wranglered butt. He had a very nice butt. She hated herself for even noticing.

  He stumbled again as he attempted the quarter turn on the landing. She darted up beside him, and he sagged against her, his arm snaking over her shoulder. She took a portion of his weight and became uncomfortably aware of Dash’s muscular chest.

  “What kinda perfume you got on?” he asked.

  “I don’t wear perfume, Dash. And I don’t want to hear one crack about BO. I wash every day. I washed when I was ten, too. Now, here we go; one step at a time.” They wobbled forward and up the stairs. He was limping on his right side.

  He sniffed her hair. “You smell like the lilacs my granny used to grow.” His voice took on a soft and faraway sound that she didn’t want to hear. But her brain registered the longing in his words, and her heart reacted by doing a real Texas two-step right on her ribs.

  Why the hell was she having this reaction to Cousin Dash? She had to distance herself, fast.

  “You, dear cousin, smell like a brewery,” she jibed.

  “That’s only because Roy dumped his beer on my head after he knocked me out. Damn, that hurts.”

  “What hurts?”

  “My effing knee. Doc says I’ll have to go get an MRI if it’s not better by tomorrow. And I had finally gotten to a pain-free place. I know now why I decided against playing football. Roy still has a few moves he hasn’t used up.” It certainly sounded like Dash was using booze to self-medicate. She tuned out his drunken ramblings and focused on helping him get to his bedroom on the second floor.

  When they reached his bedroom door, he let go of her shoulder and steadied himself against the wall. He continued to press the slightly bloody ice pack to his mouth, but he looked down at her out of a pair of sharp blue eyes.

  “Honey, I think it’s best we be honest with each other, right off the bat,” he said, after a very long and uncomfortable moment. “So I think it’s important for you to know that—”

  “Save it, cuz. We know each other too well. We’re like oil and water. We always have been. I don’t approve of you going off and getting drunk. Good night. I hope you’re clearheaded in the morning. It’s the least you could do for Aunt Miriam and Uncle Harry.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Dash awoke to the sound of his brains being sucked from his head.

  No, that couldn’t be right. If his brains were being sucked out, he would be unconscious. Unconsciousness would be better than this. He lay on his back, and something roared at him from someplace.

  Inside his head, perhaps?

  Or maybe he’d been abducted by aliens who were about to probe him.

  He cracked an eye and immediately closed it against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the dusty windows of his bedroom. His face was pounding. His lip was throbbing. And his knee…

  Well, there weren’t words to describe that pain.

  He lay there panting and mentally cursing himself and Roy Burdett. Everyone was going to think the worst of him. Why had he gotten all riled up at Dot’s? Why had he lost his temper?

  What is that sound?

  He rolled over and peeked at his bedside clock. Shoot, it was eight-thirty. The funeral was scheduled for ten. He needed to get himself some ibuprofen.

  He pushed himself out of bed. Every muscle screamed. He was bruised in all kinds of places. Damn. Football was a vicious sport. He staggered across the floorboards and pulled open the door.

  The roar got louder, and the sight that greeted him didn’t make him feel any better.

  Savannah, wearing a skirt, a pair of high heels, and a tight sweater that showed off her breasts, was pushing the old vacuum cleaner across the worn carpet in the hallway. She looked up from her domestic chores and greeted him with a regal smile as bright as the light shining from her blond ponytail.

  A tight coil of unwanted reaction wormed its way through the haze of his pain. She was uppity all right, but boy howdy, was she ever built.

  He drew in a breath and held it for a long moment as he reached for the robe hanging on the back of the door.

  She stopped running the machine across the threadbare carpet. One proud eyebrow arched as her gaze narrowed. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she’d just gotten one hell of a good look at his morning erection.

  But, being a princess, she kept calm and carried on. “Good morning. I thought you were never going to get up,” she said.

  “You’re vacuuming.” His voice sounded as rusty as nails left out in the rain. “Princesses don’t vacuum.”

  She scowled at him. “I’m sorry I disturbed your beauty rest, but I’m vacuuming because this hallway was dusty, and we’ll be having a house full of people this afternoon.” She cocked her head, and her ponytail swished.

  “ ’Scuse me. I need to hit the head.” He staggered past her and into the bathroom, where he fumbled around until he found the ibuprofen and knocked back three. Cupping his hands under the water, he gulped down ten or twelve mouthfuls before raising his head and looking at himself in the mirror.

  A sorrier sight he’d never seen. His lip was swollen out to there. The shiner was impressive, to say the least. He felt the back of his head. Yeah, the knot there was still tender to the touch.

  Shoot, he looked like he’d been on a three-day bender.

  How in the hell does a sober man end up looking like this on the day of his uncle’s funeral?

  He stared at himself, replaying every humiliating moment of the previous night. His heart bumped against his rib cage as he recalled Savannah helping him up the stairs. She’d thought the worst of him, hadn’t she? And all the while, he was getting kind of turned on by the way her hair smelled, and the pressure of her warm, soft curves against his bruises.

  Well, that was just the AA celibacy talking. Because having sexy thoughts about Savannah was ridiculous. All of Aunt Miriam’s friends might think that Savannah was sweet. But Dash knew the truth. Behind that facade, she was meaner than a junkyard dog.

  His first summer in Last Chance, she’d come waltzing into his world and immediately run her mouth about all his private business to all her friends. She’d tried her darndest to turn her friends Rocky and Tulane Rhodes against him. She’d made his life miserable. She’d made him feel small and insignificant and unworthy.

&nb
sp; He let go of a deep breath. All that had happened a very long time ago, and he needed to grow up. He had choices now. Choices he could control. And right now he was choosing to shower off the beer that Roy had splashed all over him and to stay the hell away from Savannah Reynolds White.

  “Damned woman,” Dash muttered. “It’s gonna be a long few days until she goes back where she came from.”

  Forty-five minutes later Dash stumbled into the kitchen, where he found Savannah brandishing a coffeepot like a Viking queen flaunting her sword. The field of battle was so spotless, the shine off the linoleum floor hurt his eyes. Did the woman stay up all night housecleaning?

  “Coffee sounds good,” he said.

  “How do you take it?”

  “Hot and naked, please.”

  Color rose right up Savannah’s high cheekbones. Score one point for him in this lopsided battle. She was a sight to behold when she blushed like that.

  “Naked?”

  “That’s right, princess, naked. That’s the way I take my coffee and a lot of other stuff.”

  She turned and poured the steaming brew into a jadeite mug and handed it to him. “You just sit yourself down, Dash. What can I make you for breakfast?”

  She was talking too loud and smiling too perfectly. And then it occurred to him that she thought he was hung over. She probably expected him to turn green and run from the room. Ha! He was going to call her bluff. He was betting the princess had no idea how to cook.

  “You make omelets?”

  She blinked. “You want an omelet? Really?”

  “Yeah. You know how to make a real western omelet? With onions and green pepper and ham and hot sauce.”

  “You want hot sauce?”

  “Yes, princess, I don’t eat naked omelets.” He sat himself down at the kitchen table and grinned at her.

  “I’ll, uh, see if we have the ingredients.” She headed toward the fridge. And she kind of bustled like she knew her way around a kitchen. Which surprised the heck out of him.

  It had been a long time since anyone had bustled in this particular kitchen. And then he remembered that Savannah had spent a lot of time cooking with Aunt Sally. Which meant she probably did know how to make omelets. And if they were anything like Aunt Sally’s, then Savannah might be a useful houseguest after all.